


Fading Fox

by AnxiousFox



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Death, Exhaustion, F/M, How Do I Tag, Implied Relationships, Infection, Injury, Pain, Peace, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regret, Romantic Soulmates, Thieves Guild (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousFox/pseuds/AnxiousFox
Summary: Why do people only realise important things, when it's already too late.In which a beautiful relationship wilts, before it can even sprout.
Relationships: Brynjolf (Elder Scrolls)/Original Female Character(s), Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Fading Fox

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted work on this platform, any feedback would be appreciated.
> 
> I hope you..... I don't think 'enjoy is the right word.   
> *retry* I hope my writing insights some form of emotion from you!

The town of Riften was filled with laughter and chatter, venders calling out their wares, beggars curled up in   
corners hiding from judgmental looks.

Everything was normal, or at least on the surface. For you see, there was a game being played here, people acting as pawns.   
Sly smirks and glances being shared between certain citizens, stumbles and interactions. All perfectly calculated.   
Because in this game, the stakes were high. 

Win and you could come out with riches, win and you could come out with gold or trinkets.   
Lose and be hung. 

Thievery was an art, and she was the artist. 

A small nimble wood elf skirted between the crowd, stumbling into citizens discreetly. Her hands quick and unseen, people offered handshakes and hugs, they made it even easier for her. 

~  
Brynjolf smirked from his place at the balcony of the inn, those silly pawns might not see the game being played. But he was a champion of this particular  
game, and he saw it all. 

Vixen was clever, she was sly, you could never tell what she was thinking. It was a skill that Brynjolf also excelled in, but if he was an expert she was a god.  
He swore that woman could read minds and intentions like books, she knew the liars and the gullible before they spoke.

His fox played this game well, that Brynjolf could admire.

~

The Ragged Flagon was filled with drunken cheers and jeers, flagons clattered to the ground and chair legs screeched. 

Vixen was sat tucked into the corner of the hall, her back to the wall and her eyes on the room as she slowly raked her eyes around the room. 

Observing, it was instinct at this point.

Look out. 

Who's behind you? 

Where's my exit? 

I can't trust them. 

I can't trust anyone. 

~

She was broken, all of these quests and challanges she's faced. They took their toll.  
Dovakiin,  
The Unseen,  
The Fox.

She had so many names, so many stories. But Vixen was tired, so so tired. Her bones ached and her head throbbed, she was too young. She shouldn't be so welcoming of her own death.  
But she had years of practise.

She had very little to thank her quests for, but her friendships and stories, those she would cherish.

Vixen knew that her death was creeping closer. All of these battles, they had destroyed her, her resilience and strength had faded to nothing.

All it took was one hit on her last job, one arrow to the gut, one weapon she was too tired to dodge.  
She was tired, she didn't consider the after effects of her wound.

Injuries were commonplace for her, she had been stabbed, impaled, shot, burned, frozen, shocked and torn apart. Pain was nothing new. But, she didn't know what to do when her wound didn't heal, when the blood didn't stop, when the blood mixed with thick yellow sludge - a clear sign of infection.

Vixen tried, she tried to hard to ignore it, but the wound puckered, thick black tendrils began stretching across her stomach - their source at the injury.

She should have gone to a healer, she knew she should have.   
Why didn't she?

Vixen was so so broken, perhaps on some level she felt she deserved it. No matter how cautious she was, no matter how careful. Death, suffering and misfortune seemed to follow her, drawn to her like mud crabs to a carcass. 

Her pack, slaughtered.   
Vixen captured.   
Friends slain.   
Foes killed.   
Injuries gained.   
Another job, another mission. 

A loop of death followed her, she was acting at the epicenter. Why did it have to be her?   
Why? 

All she wanted was peace, ironic isn't it. The hero of Skyrim, the Dovakiin. The one who saved the land and brought about the seed of peace, just waiting to bloom.   
And the one to do all of this wouldn't live to see it. 

She knew this injury would be the end of her, she wasn't stupid. She had seen infected wounds, although none ever this bad. 

Vixen went through the motions, playing the game of the Thieves Guild, drinking in the bar, bantering with Brynjolf, she lived these days as she always had.   
Her legacy would be remembered, that she was sure of. But her own stories and memory, the memory of her. That would be forgotten, she would fade away as her story was altered. 

They would never mention how she was brought to this land against her will by the Imperial corruption, wouldn't mention her crimes, wouldn't mention her.   
Perhaps they would hide the fact she was a wood elf, and depict her as some great native Nord warrior, honourable and brave.   
Not the sly, observant wood elf she really is. 

These people, her guild. They might mourn her for a while, but they would move on, the cycle would keep moving, and maybe the chaos in the cycle would die with her, maybe her death could bring about the peace she always craved. 

Huh, fate truly wanted to push her into the dirt one final time didn't it.   
She fought so so hard, just for a taste of peace a glimpse of it. But peace could only reign, when the one who earned it, could no longer see it. 

Vixen could only hope that her guild would have peace when she was gone, no more dragon attacks, no more corrupt politics to get trapped by, no more.... 

She didn't want to be mourned, the guild might do it anyways.  
She hadn't wanted to die either, fate seemed to make a game of denying her, anything she had ever wanted - safety, security, honesty, peace - it seemed that in the way the Theives Guild's game used the civillains as pawns, the gods had used her.

She wouldn't give the gods the satisfaction of making her death into a spectacle. She wouldn't have her corpse paraded around, her body carried through the peace she had always wanted to live in.  
No, her death would be where she decided, nothing could deny her that. Even if the gods took her before she reached her final den, she would fight to return to the living, just so she could close her eyes where she chose.

It was her death, she would die where she wanted, seeing as she hadn't been allowed to live how she wanted. The first thing she promised herself she would have complete control over doubled as the final thing she would ever do.

And with that final thought, Vixen dragged herself up from her table, she extinguished her candles, grabbed her twin axes and stumbled towards her back exit.

Out into the forest she dragged herself, she knew where she was going, hopefully she would be left there in peace.

She weakly chopped away the foliage with her axes, silence wasn't an option, she didn't have the co-ordination.

Her head pounded, her torso throbbed, her arms ached and her legs wobbled.  
But she kept going, she would do anything to get there,nothing would deny her this.  
And finally, she got there.

It was nothing special, a small stream, large oak trees, long vines and various bushes, some scattered with flowers or berries.

But that wasn't why she had chosen this place.  
This place was just like the rest of the forest, nothing special - but there was something. An overhang of the smell cliff above her little corner. Vines hung from the room hiding the hollow from prying eyes, the floor was covered with moss and soft grass, flowers and weeds grew from the rock face.

And as Vixen stepped through the vines, she felt peace. As though everything just stopped hurting, she was seeing things from third person, but she was seeing them through first person aswell.  
It should have been bizarre, but Vixen was having her first and last taste of peace.

As she curled up in the corner of her little cove, she let her bright honey eyes watch the world through the foliage.  
The soft burbling of the stream.  
The rusting of shrubbery.  
The whisper of the breeze.  
The sounds of the wildlife.

And with that, Vixen closed her eyes.

~  
Brynjolf rushed through the Ratway, something was wrong, he could feel it. He didn't know what it was, but it was bad. And for some reason his heart ached.

He had a suspicion something had happened to Vixen, his sly little fox had been off.  
She was slower, she was louder when she moved, she was quieter when she spoke. Her eyebrows had furrowed in pain and her eyes had begun to dull.

It wasn't anything new, ever since her battle with Alduin she hadn't been the same. She went through episodes where she relived everything, he couldn't imagine the pain of it.  
He tried to help, he really did. But he could only do so much.

It was obvious to everyone, they could all see it. No matter how hard she tried to hide it, his little fox was tired.  
Her clever, witty comments disappeared, her mischievous smirk had been replaced by a forced facade.

But what hadn't been obvious, was the injury. No one had taken much noticed, his brave little fox had a habit of getting into fights, so wounds were a frequent occurance. This one however, hadn't gone away.

He's watched for weeks, her wincing at movement in the beginning. Which progressed into wincing at any and all sounds and movement.  
It hurt to watch, and no matter how hard he tried his fox wouldn't let him help.

Brynjolf hadn't thought he could love someone to such an extent that their pain hurt him. But he was living it, so he didn't have to imagine.

His strong little fox, he had brought her into this guild, shown her what to do and watched her grow.  
He watched that nervous, skittery wood elf grow into his clever, witty little fox.

He wished he had told her how he felt, he wished that it hadn't taken seeing her in pain for him to realise his feelings. He would tell her, even if she didn't return them. He didn't think he could live with himself not knowing if his little fox could have been truly his.

Brynjolf didn't even knock, simply bursting through the door to her home, her fire burnt down to a few red embers in a bit of black ash. All of her candles extinguished, and a single tankard of ale sat on her table.  
But what caught his attention was the pile of bloody bandages on the floor next to her table, the smell was sour - infection.  
And then the panic set in.

Where was his hurt little fox?  
He had to protect her if she was hurt, but where was she?

His mind threw itself into turmoil, but one thought was clear - find her.  
The back entrance was cracked open, his only lead. He tore out of her home into the forest, running on instinct not paying attention to his surroundings.  
He burst into a clearing, where did he need to go?  
Where was his trail?

Brynjolf couldn't breathe, he had to find her - he had to. He looked around in desperation, only to see a trail of destruction and damage in the bushes, a path.

Brynjolf didn't know who made that path, or how old it was. But what he did know was that it could have been his little fox, and that was all the persuasion he needed. Running through the trail, winding around trees, pushing away thorn bushes and low branches. Suddenly it all eased when he burst into a clearing.

A small stream bubbled, branches rustled and vines swayed where they hung beneath a large overhang.  
The peaceful natural sounds being disturbed by his uneven gasping breaths.

Where was she?

He didn't know why he did it, but he reached forward and took a vine in his hands, running the coarse rough plant through his fingers, only to have his attention captured by the little ball curled up in the back of the hollow overhang.

He burst through the vines and ran towards the little ball - his little fox.

She was curled in on herself, her head resting on her palms, her eyes closed and features soft. It was the most peaceful he had ever seen her, and that's why it took so long for him to notice something.

She wasn't breathing.  
There was a large blood patch across her stomach, soaked through her clothing.  
And the infected smell hung around her. 

That's when Brynjolf's legs went from under him. Tears dripping down his face.   
When had he started crying?   
His hands shook so much he couldn't even lift them, he was choking, he couldn't breathe. His heart felt as though it had just burst, everything hurt - but he felt nothing at the same time. 

He reached out a hand and rested it against her arm - her skin felt like ice under his hand. 

The world fell away around him, it was only him and his little fox, that he never got to ask to be truly his.


End file.
